The Sisters' Prom Extravaganza

Gimme your ear for a minute and I'm going to explain the title of this blog.  I have no sisters, well, biological ones.  I've got better ones than that.  See, I figure if I had a real one(s), we'd fight over which one of us got Mother's jewelry or china or some other mindless crap.  Now I have the glory of sisters with none of the bickering and jealousy.  Okay, well, we do bicker, but we get over it...eventually.


I haven't got just one:  There are many and they are all such a wonderful and blessed part of my life.  Some have been with me since not long after I learned to walk; some left and came back; some held me while I mourned a marriage that was destined for failure from the start; some stood by as I married the most magnificent man ever (next to my daddy, of course);  some told me I was beautiful when I thought the exact opposite; and, some just walked in like they'd always been there and stayed. 


We've fought and stopped speaking.  We've cussed each other and thrown sharp objects and sharper words.  We've missed important parts of each others' lives.  We've sworn off each other like a crackhead swearing off the pipe. Then we realize that we are woven into each other.  It is not a footprint, but tied into the very essence of my life.


I am inspired by the strength that women find when there is not nary a drop of hope in the well.  I'm amazed by single mothers who do it all and then some.  I'm amazed by the alcoholic women who promise not to drink just one more day and find the strength to keep it.  I'm overwhelmed by those women who suffer at the hands of abusive partners and find the power to walk away.  I'm astounded by those women who battle the depression and anxiety and other mental illnesses and fight every day as if life depended on it because often it does.  Our gender is worthy.


What inspired me Sunday morning was thebloggess.com's traveling red dress. I wanted a red dress.  I wanted something, anything, to make me feel like I mattered.  Sometimes I'm not me; I'm somebody's mom or somebody's wife or somebody's teacher.  I wanted to be me.  Then I tried to think of what in the world that represented to me?  A dress?  A car?  Jewelry?  There was nothing that came to mind.  I'm fortunate enough to have clothes in the closet and my taste is pretty crappy, so most of what I like is cheap.  


What I really wanted was someone else to have that red dress, that moment of feeling beautiful.  I love that swimmy feeling in my stomach when I see other people happy.  Even better is when I can be a part of that.


I'm having a prom.  The idea dawned on me and made perfect sense.  I'm having a prom.  A good old-fashioned prom with butter mints and crepe streamers and cheesy pictures.  Some of my sisters are pitching in.  You don't have to worry about a date because this is only for the girls.  We're gonna dance and sing and pretend we aren't wounded.  Then, when our feet are swollen, our lungs weak from song, and our souls replenished, we will donate our beautiful dresses to our local church to share them for upcoming proms. Girls who otherwise might not have a dress at all will go to prom with a special dress.  One that has had life breathed into it by those of us more jaded than the new owners.


I'm afraid this will fail.  I'm afraid people will say they will come and then not.  I'm afraid people will come and hate it.  I'm afraid the music will suck or they won't have fun.  I'm afraid of so many things, but mostly I'm afraid of this not happening.  My anxiety is gnawing at my belly, but I'm going to see it through.  So help me, if I have to, I will dance in my fancy-schmancy dress all by my damn self and then I will fall breathless to the floor. I've survived a lot, and I deserve that dress and that dance and a beautiful teenage girl deserves  it, too. So I'm gonna make it happen.


Go find your dress. It's on.

My Love Affair with Marshmallow Creme....And The Aunt Who Loved Me

Marshmallow Creme (Cream?) is truly a gift from the heavens.  It is based on my favorite food group, sugar, so it really can't be wrong.  It's shiny and fluffy and makes everything better.  I think it was what God had for dessert on his day of rest.

Many years ago, I was an insecure freshman in high school desperately in love with one of the most beautiful people I thought I'd ever seen.  For some freak reason I have yet to understand, he asked me out and we continued to date for several years.  One night I was sitting on kitchen counter eating straight from the jar of marshmallow cream and talking to a girlfriend about how said boyfriend and I were so in sync and obviously were destined for marriage.  She relayed this to common friend of ours who happened to have a crush on my boyfriend.  Common friend, upon hearing of our true love destiny and my love affair with the 'mallow, said, "I hope she gets fat so he dumps her."   That kinda ruined our relationship for a while...me and the mallow, I mean.  

Years later, during my freshman year of college, my beloved aunt turned 50.  Now, my aunt never had any children of her own, so I was her surrogate child.  Every kid should have one of these...She brought me clothes and anything my heart desired; she intervened when my parents obviously did not know how to be appropriate parents (read:  they told me no); above all, she loved me unconditionally.  I knew that parents were supposed to do that, but it was pretty cool that she did, too.  

For the 50th anniversary of her birth, her husband had a party for her.  Here is what I remember:  there was a really, really cute boy there whom I later dated (My love destiny turned out to not be so destined. He got a job at a pizza joint my senior year and fell in love with a co-worker.);  there was a very hairy stripper with long curly hair, ala Patrick Hernandez (go google it now); and there was the best damn fruit dip ever there.  It was creamy and orangey AND had marshmallow cream in it.  SCORE!

My aunt made it for me a couple of times when I went to visit after that, but then that ended.  She passed away unexpectedly not long after.  I never thought she would be gone, at least not until she was very ancient and had helped me raise my own kids who were yet to be born.  This woman oozed life and I couldn't imagine it being any other way until it was.  I never thought to ask her for a recipe because she was always supposed to be there.

It has been almost 20 years since I had that dip...until today.  I helped my sister (not really, but only because God separated us at birth) host a baby shower for our other sister (again, not my sister, but it really is her sister!).  While looking for a dip recipe online for the fruit, I came across one that sounded like it just might be similar.  I thought, what the hell?  We had really good petit fours, so I could always hide the dip if it sucked.

It wasn't just similar; It was THE dip.  For that brief second, I was 18 and still innocent about how much it hurt to lose people you love.  I ate it without fruit until I had made sure it really was the same.  Then I had it with fruit to make sure it was still the same. I probably had a few too many bites, but I'm sure it's okay.  I know it's okay.

Today I saw one of my oldest and dearest friends happy and full of life (literally) and I thought about how fleeting it sometimes is.  I sometimes wonder how the hell I got to kissing 40 ~ Where did the time go?  Why didn't I do more with it?  I should've appreciated more.  I should've gone to the gym sooner.  Really, I should've eaten more marshmallow cream. 

Now, go make this dip and say a little thanks to my aunt who I know is still looking down on me everyday of my life.  I think I will christen this Wanda's Stripper Dip!

7 oz whipped cream cheese

7 oz marshmallow creme

1-2 tablespoons Tang (depends on how strong you prefer)

Mix together in a bowl with a fork or knife and use as dip.  Most awesome with white seedless grapes!

P.S.  I'm totally aware there are no cookbook companies knocking on my door.  

What if the Hokey Pokey is Really What It's All About?

First, I must admit I totally stole that title from a sign in my soul sistah's house.  I've always loved it, because, well, what if the hokey pokey is what life's all about?  Not money, status, religion, or whatever...just a silly little dance while we're here on Earth?


A friend posted on facebook the other day, "Do you ever feel like you're just going through the motions?"  Um, hello, were you sitting inside my brain reading my thoughts?  Yes, Yes, YES!!!  Every stinkin' moment of my (seemingly) unfulfilled life! 


I blame this all upon the media, really.  Oh, and Hollywood.  Bastards.  There are glorious commercials  showing soccer moms with their long, shiny hair getting the monogrammed cooler out of the back of the equally shiny SUV.  The kids are perfectly dressed with monogrammed ribbons in their hair.  Nobody's fighting, everyone is on time, and the bloody sun is shining.  Not reality, peeps.


Here is how our soccer practice/games usually go.  We can't find the gear, whether it's shin guards, the ball, or cleats.  When everything is ready, I have to drive like Mario Andretti on meth because we're almost late and being late means running extra.  I forgot to buy water and we can't find the damn water bottle.  Brother is mad because he can or can't go.  Whatever I need him to do, he wants to do the opposite.  And if Baby Girl has to go, she screams like a wounded bat because there is no way I'm letting her out of her restraints, aka car seat.  We tried that once, and she ran out on the field repeatedly.  I was that parent.


In addition to my long, shiny hair and shiny SUV, I should also be doing yoga upon waking, preparing organic meals grown in my own garden, and composting to save the Earth.  Speaking of saving, I should also be socking away money for three college educations while still paying for my own and also be able to leave my kids an inheritance large enough they can travel the world for summer vacations long after I'm dead and gone.  Oh, I should make my bed every morning while the birds chirp outside my window and the rays of the sun pour through my window and dance across the bed.  And I should be dressed in a very expensive nightie while doing this.


I should also belong to a book club and my kids need to belong to several extra-curricular academic clubs in addition to their competitive athletic activities.  They will also need to play an instrument, preferably an obscure one.  The more obscure, the better. Like the Glockenspiel.  (Okay, I totally googled obscure musical instruments to find that, but it was featured on Jimi Hendrix's Little Wing.)  Oh, and they need to speak another language.  Actually more than two.  Two is just for losers.


Somewhere along the way, I'm supposed to love and care for them and actually let them know I'm their mom and what it means to be a part of our family.


So, yes, I do feel like I'm going through the motions.  The motions of laundry and scrubbing toilets and cleaning dishes and wiping noses and butts.  I sleep and then get up to do it all over again. Some days, I *gasp* go out into public without washing my hair.  I have been known to go to the grocery store in sweats...not fancy yoga pants, but real, honest-to-God sweat pants.  


The motions are what makes our life our life.  If we suddenly showed up spit-shined and polished, people would worry.  My kids haven't seen a foreign country, but they've memorized every dip and divot of their grandparent's backyard.  I don't read them stories every night, but my oldest and I play "I love you more than..." before bed.  "I love you more than ice cream."  "Well, I love you more than a snow day!"  And so it goes...


The hokey pokey is a repetitive dance where one hand goes in, then out.  Next hand, then a foot, then the other foot.  If you're wild and crazy, you throw your head in there.  And repeat until you fall over.  That is life.  The same craziness over and over, dancing a little ditty along the way, and repeating till you can't anymore.  So, maybe the hokey pokey is what it's all about, not shiny, fake hair or blinged-out cars or competitions about who has the best/smartest/prettiest kid.  I think I rather like the idea of the hokey pokey being the meaning to life.  Rather much, indeed.